Idling at a traffic light, on the barren expanse of Northern Boulevard.
Motion suspended, thoughts suspended, a checkered ball suspended –
No, rising, sailing, arcing joyfully
High above the pavement, the stoplight, the chain link fence
That sequestered an adjacent schoolyard teeming with children
Who swirled in serpentine games.
The soccer ball sunk silently into the maelstrom.
My eyes retraced path to the narrow median where its flight began.
Poised, triumphantly was a small round man
Grey knit cap adorned his head,
Atop an explosion of granite-hued beard
That seemed to crumble in the radiance of his grin.
He waved. In that moment,
He was Yogi Berra on the pitcher’s mound.
A war hero atop a festooned float.
The light changed to green.
He disappeared into his car and was swept out of sight
In the freshly flowing traffic.
Shelia
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